My belly is a pouch of ripply fat
that hangs apart whenever I prepare
to touch the floor, and on my lap it sat
last night when I relaxed within my chair.
My buttocks have an action all their own.
A dozen pounds of butter wrap my hips,
and it will take as many months to hone
that lard away by microscopic chips.
“You idiot,” I tell me as I write,
“It’s all a matter of your point of view.
Your progress fine, your jeans no longer tight,
your self-reflection is a little skewed.
Pursue your course. It’s natural strategy
to use disdain for continuity.”